Nowhere in Particular
How much easier if your mother
had wanted to be packed into a rocket
or scattered over Frensham Great Pond at midnight.
Nowhere in particular, wasn't her,
she always knew what she wanted
to the letter. Currently
she makes her presence felt
in the garage on a shelf beside the turps
and Tomorite, breathing down your neck
the way she had in life.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Stephen Bone would
be pleased to hear them.